


Dirty Linen

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Sherlock Rare Pair Ficlets [12]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Episode: The Abominable Bride, Ficlet, Frottage, Gags, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, Victorian, zipper
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 04:55:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15017099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Holmes discovers evidence of Moriarty's having visited his rooms--on his pillowslip.





	Dirty Linen

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Crossed Your Mind (Like a Bullet)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6680599) by [PoppyAlexander](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander). 



> Prompted by a Lovely Reader on Tumblr: "More Sheriarty in your "Crossed Your Mind" 'verse."

Holmes knows he has been there, for he wants to be known. He has eaten off Holmes’s plate and drunk the last of the good gin. He has left open a drawer in the desk with double locks and a small, stinging booby trap that has not been triggered. And of course, he has rumpled Holmes’s bed, and left his mark.

The stain is on the pillowslip, more than a stain, and Holmes uses his thumbnail to scratch at it, making it flake. He scents it. Touches it to his tongue. Undresses and folds himself onto the bed. Turns down the lamp. Draws the pillow from behind his head and shakes if free of the slip. Lays back, and drapes the filmy thing over his face. His own hair oil, his perspiration, and that other smell, of his spunk streaked onto Holmes’s pillow. Holmes can envision him, trousers open, red-tipped prick in his hand, abusing himself with one hand braced against the wall over the headboard.

Holmes clamps his hand over his own face, scrubs the fouled pillowslip against his nose and lips. Opens his mouth and stuffs in two fingers, then again and again until he has gagged himself soundly, tasting bitter salt against his tongue, his mouth full of filth.

Moriarty straddles his chest, one hand on his throat, the other clamped across the improvised gag. Holmes feels the hair of his bollocks and the sweat of his thighs against his chest. The draped edge of the pillowslip over his eyes keeps him blind.

“Shut you up, but good, Holmes,” Moriarty burbles at him in that ridiculous brogue Holmes knows he could have easily shed years before; he was properly educated. The hand on his throat tightens just enough, and makes a slow slide upward toward his chin, a thick ache where his palm momentarily flattens Holmes’s adam’s apple. “I’ve something interesting for you, my dear. Something to tickle your fancy.” A wet, squirming worm of a tongue inside his ear makes Holmes struggle before Moriarty adds, in a menacing whisper, “You scream when your fancy’s tickled-–don’t you?”

A sound slap on his thigh, as the weight of Moriarty’s body rises from his chest. “Oh, don’t move, darling, or I’ll gut you,” he singsongs. Holmes growls around the gag, now soaked with saliva that runs down his throat—irritating–-and trickles from the corners of his mouth–-humiliating.

“Here, look.”

Moriarty flicks the pillowslip from in front of his eyes and shows Holmes a slender leather strap dangling down between finger and thumb. Along its length are a series of mean-looking metal clips, with springs. Holmes can imagine how they will bite.

“Are you tickled, yet? Hm?” He flicks the fabric back up and Holmes is blind once more. “How about if I tell you I’ve got two? Tickled now? Holmes?”

Holmes grunts and bites down, tastes Moriarty’s spend mixed with saliva and hair oil and the sizing the housekeeper puts in the linens.

A series of bee-sting pinches, each sharper and tighter than the last, down the side of his chest and belly, then up the other, and by the time Moriarty is fixing the last few in place, Holmes is shouting against his mouthful, chewing it, tears pooling at the inner corners of his eyes. There comes another great shift of weight on the bed, and Moriarty kicks Holmes’s legs apart with his knees, insinuates his hips between, and Holmes is well-acquainted with the palm oil smell that rises from where Moriarty’s fingers and palm gather up both their pricks. The bed creaks and complains as he begins to rock hard against Holmes’s prone body, driving him back and up until Holmes must brace them with one hand above his head. Moriarty gathers up the fabric of the pillowslip in one fist and shoves it at Holmes’s mouth, making him gag and struggle, and Moriarty wears a furious, conquering grin.

There is a metal loop at the end of each leather strap, and Moriarty slips two fingers in. His brows rise and his eyes are crazed.

“Tickled yet, darling? My boy. Holmes. Let’s see if it tickles.”

He yanks–-hard–-up–-down–-and Holmes screams into the gag, his vision wavering at the edges, and his own hand stuffs more of the pillowslip between his teeth, the other doing the wretched, furious work of bringing himself off, pulling hard, slick with the oil he uses to fix his hair in place, spending himself in a wash over the back of his own hand.

He falls asleep sucking the last of Moriarty’s stain from the linen.


End file.
